Bel Ami, Guy de Maupassant [read me like a book txt] 📗

before of their intended arrival. Both Duroy and his wife were charmed with the beauties of the landscape presented to their view, and the cabman halted in order to allow them to get a better idea of the panorama before them. As he whipped up his horse, Duroy saw an old couple not a hundred meters off, approaching, and he leaped from the carriage crying: “Here they are, I know them.”

The man was short, corpulent, florid, and vigorous, notwithstanding his age; the woman was tall, thin, and melancholy, with stooping shoulders—a woman who had worked from childhood, who had never laughed nor jested.

Madeleine, too, alighted and watched the couple advance, with a contraction of her heart she had not anticipated. They did not recognize their son in that fine gentleman, and they would never have taken that handsome lady for their daughter-in-law. They walked along, passed the child they were expecting, without glancing at the “city folks.”

Georges cried with a laugh: “Good day, Father Duroy.”

Both the old man and his wife were struck dumb with astonishment; the latter recovered her self-possession first and asked: “Is it you, son?”

The young man replied: “Yes, it is I, Mother Duroy,” and approaching her, he kissed her upon both cheeks and said: “This is my wife.”

The two rustics stared at Madeleine as if she were a curiosity, with anxious fear, combined with a sort of satisfied approbation on the part of the father and of jealous enmity on that of the mother.

M. Duroy, senior, who was naturally jocose, made so bold as to ask with a twinkle in his eye: “May I kiss you too?” His son uttered an exclamation and Madeleine offered her cheek to the old peasant; who afterward wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The old woman, in her turn, kissed her daughter-in-law with hostile reserve. Her ideal was a stout, rosy, country lass, as red as an apple and as round.

The carriage preceded them with the luggage. The old man took his son’s arm and asked him: “How are you getting on?”

“Very well.”

“That is right. Tell me, has your wife any means?”

Georges replied: “Forty thousand francs.”

His father whistled softly and muttered: “Whew!” Then he added: “She is a handsome woman.” He admired his son’s wife, and in his day had considered himself a connoisseur.

Madeleine and the mother walked side by side in silence; the two men joined them. They soon reached the village, at the entrance to which stood M. Duroy’s tavern. A pine board fastened over the door indicated that thirsty people might enter. The table was laid. A neighbor, who had come to assist, made a low courtesy on seeing so beautiful a lady appear; then recognizing Georges, she cried: “Oh Lord, is it you?”

He replied merrily: “Yes, it is I, Mother Brulin,” and he kissed her as he had kissed his father and mother. Then he turned to his wife:

“Come into our room,” said he, “you can lay aside your hat.”

They passed through a door to the right and entered a room paved with brick, with whitewashed walls and a bed with cotton hangings.

A crucifix above a holy-water basin and two colored prints, representing Paul and Virginia beneath a blue palm-tree, and Napoleon I. on a yellow horse, were the only ornaments in that neat, but bare room.

When they were alone, Georges embraced Madeleine.

“Good morning, Made! I am glad to see the old people once more. When one is in Paris one does not think of this place, but when one returns, one enjoys it just the same.”

At that moment his father cried, knocking on the partition with his fist: “Come, the soup is ready.”

They re-entered the large public-room and took their seats at the table. The meal was a long one, served in a truly rustic fashion. Father Duroy, enlivened by the cider and several glasses of wine, related many anecdotes, while Georges, to whom they were all familiar, laughed at them.

Mother Duroy did not speak, but sat at the board, grim and austere, glancing at her daughter-in-law with hatred in her heart.

Madeleine did not speak nor did she eat; she was depressed. Wherefore? She had wished to come; she knew that she was coming to a simple home; she had formed no poetical ideas of those peasants, but she had perhaps expected to find them somewhat more polished, refined. She recalled her own mother, of whom she never spoke to anyone—a governess who had been betrayed and who had died of grief and shame when Madeleine was twelve years old. A stranger had had the little girl educated. Her father without doubt. Who was he? She did not know positively, but she had vague suspicions.

The meal was not yet over when customers entered, shook hands with M. Duroy, exclaimed on seeing his son, and seating themselves at the wooden tables began to drink, smoke, and play dominoes. The smoke from the clay pipes and penny cigars filled the room.

Madeleine choked and asked: “Can we go out? I cannot remain here any longer,”

Old Duroy grumbled at being disturbed. Madeleine rose and placed her chair at the door in order to wait until her father-in-law and his wife had finished their coffee and wine.

Georges soon joined her.

“Would you like to stroll down to the Seine?”

Joyfully she cried: “Yes.”

They descended the hillside, hired a boat at Croisset, and spent the remainder of the afternoon beneath the willows in the soft, warm, spring air, and rocked gently by the rippling waves of the river. They returned at nightfall. The evening repast by candle-light was more painful to Madeleine than that of the morning. Neither Father Duroy nor his wife spoke. When the meal was over, Madeleine drew her husband outside in order not to have to remain in that room, the atmosphere of which was heavy with smoke and the fumes of liquor.

When they were alone, he said: “You are already weary.”

She attempted to protest; he interrupted her:

“I have seen it. If you wish we will leave tomorrow.”

She whispered: “I should like to go.”

They walked along and entered a narrow path among high trees, hedged in on either side by impenetrable brushwood.

She asked: “Where are we?”

He replied: “In the forest—one of the largest in France.”

Madeleine, on raising her head, could see the stars between the branches and hear the rustling of the leaves. She felt strangely nervous. Why, she could not tell. She seemed to be lost, surrounded by perils, abandoned, alone, beneath that vast vaulted sky.

She murmured: “I am afraid; I should like to return.”

“Very well, we will.”

On their return they found the old people in bed. The next morning Madeleine rose early and was ready to leave at daybreak. When Georges told his parents that they were going to return home, they guessed whose wish it was.

His father asked simply: “Shall I see you soon again?”

“Yes—in the summer-time.”

“Very well.”

His mother grumbled: “I hope you will not regret what you have done.”

Georges gave them two hundred francs to appease them, and the cab arriving at ten o’clock, the couple kissed the old peasants and set out.

As they were descending the side of the hill, Duroy laughed. “You see,” said he, “I warned you. I should, however, not have presented you to M. and Mme. du Roy de Cantel, senior.”

She laughed too and replied: “I am charmed now! They are nice people whom I am beginning to like very much. I shall send them confections from Paris.” Then she murmured: “Du Roy de Cantel. We will say that we spent a week at your parents’ estate,” and drawing near him, she kissed him saying:

“Good morning, Georges.”

He replied: “Good morning, Madeleine,” as he slipped his arm around her waist.

 

CHAPTER X.

JEALOUSY

The Du Roys had been in Paris two days and the journalist had resumed work; he had given up his own especial province to assume that of Forestier, and to devote himself entirely to politics. On this particular evening he turned his steps toward home with a light heart. As he passed a florist’s on Rue Notre Dame de Lorette he bought a bouquet of half-open roses for Madeleine. Having forgotten his key, on arriving at his door, he rang and the servant answered his summons.

Georges asked: “Is Madame at home?” “Yes, sir.”

In the dining-room he paused in astonishment to see covers laid for three: the door of the salon being ajar, he saw Madeleine arranging in a vase on the mantelpiece a bunch of roses similar to his.

He entered the room and asked: “Have you invited anyone to dinner?”

She replied without turning her head and continuing the arrangement of her flowers: “Yes and no: it is my old friend, Count de Vaudrec, who is in the habit of dining here every Monday and who will come now as he always has,”

Georges murmured: “Very well.”

He stopped behind her, the bouquet in his hand, the desire strong within him to conceal it—to throw it away. However, he said:

“Here, I have brought you some roses!”

She turned to him with a smile and said: “Ah, how thoughtful of you!” and she kissed him with such evident affection that he felt consoled.

She took the flowers, inhaled their perfume, and put them in an empty vase. Then she said as she noted the effect: “Now I am satisfied; my mantelpiece looks pretty,” adding with an air of conviction:

“Vaudrec is charming; you will become intimate with him at once,”

A ring announced the Count. He entered as if he were at home. After gallantly kissing Mme. Du Roy’s hand, he turned to her husband and cordially offered his hand, saying: “How are you, my dear Du Roy?”

He had no longer that haughty air, but was very affable. One would have thought in the course of five minutes, that the two men had known one another for ten years. Madeleine, whose face was radiant, said: “I will leave you together. I have work to superintend in the kitchen.” The dinner was excellent and the Count remained very late. When he was gone, Madeleine said to her husband: “Is he not nice? He improves, too, on acquaintance. He is a good, true, faithful friend. Ah, without him—”

She did not complete her sentence and Georges replied: “Yes, he is very pleasant, I think we shall understand each other well.”

“You do not know,” she said, “that we have work to do to-night before retiring. I did not have time to tell you before dinner, for Vaudrec came. Laroche-Mathieu brought me important news of Morocco. We must make a fine article of that. Let us set to work at once. Come, take the lamp.”

He carried the lamp and they entered the study. Madeleine leaned, against the mantelpiece, and having lighted a cigarette, told him the news and gave him her plan of the article. He listened attentively, making notes as she spoke, and when she had finished he raised objections, took up the question and, in his turn, developed another plan. His wife ceased smoking, for her interest was aroused in following Georges’s line of thought. From time to time she murmured: “Yes, yes; very good—excellent—very forcible—” And when he had finished speaking, she said: “Now let us write.”

It was always difficult for him to make a beginning and she would lean over his shoulder and whisper the phrases in his ear, then he would add a few lines; when their article was completed, Georges re-read it. Both he and Madeleine pronounced it admirable and kissed one another with passionate admiration.

The article appeared with the signature of “G. du Roy de Cantel,” and made a great